Gang of Four/PiL-inspired NY punk-funkers The Rapture were up first, before dashing off to do another gig at Heaven. Riding high on critically acclaimed album ‘Echoes’, they make up for the Big Apple demerits run up by The Strokes (ooh, controversial). They are, in truth, more funk than punk, with the sax noodling and angular guitar shapes underpinned by dance rhythms in the bass-lines and percussion. From the rocky Modern Romance to the fantastic clap-along disco of I Need Your Love to Olio, with its electro-beats and refrain of ‘over and over and over again’ they played a blinder, Coming Of Spring and lengthy set closer House Of Jealous Lovers being particular highlights. One of the bands of the year.   

The lightweight West Coast poppery of The Thrills is pleasant enough, if largely forgettable, like that squirty cream in a can; sweet for an instant but lacks substance and disappears quicker than humour at a Graham Norton show. Weedy vocals can work well; just look at Neil Young (they obviously have), but Conor Deasy sounds like he’s run round the block and hasn’t got his breath back. ‘We are der Trills’ – ah, that famous band of German budgies. Best steer clear of slowies like Old Friends, New Lovers with its bar room piano, and the dragging Just Travelling Through, and revel in the tasty blue-skied sunny morsels of Big Sur and One Horse Town. But with the sun now buggering off you wonder if enthusiasm for their Beach Boys summer sounds will follow suit. Santa Clauz, you’re not that far.

‘Give me a D. Give me an arkness.’ Yes, it’s omnipresent The Darkness on their inexplicable rise to superstardom. Justin Hawkins is surely the ugliest frontman in rock (Lemmy Kilminster, hand over that crown, you’ve had your day); the last time I saw gnashers that scary was on Predator. The crowd lapped up their Def Leppard hair metal tribute act like starved moggies let loose in a creamery, while girly-voiced Hawkins did more mincing than a meat pie factory. When he soloed through the crowd aloft on shoulders during Love On The Rocks, No Ice he came that close I coulda strangled the bastard. In two years they’ll either be playing Wembley Arena with a troupe of dwarves and miniature Stonehenge, or they’ll be down your local on a Wednesday night after the pensioner who plays piano like Les Dawson. Give me a Sh. Give me an ite.

The Music graced this stage 8 months back and my, how they’ve improved. Then they seemed ill at ease and out of their depth, although Robert Harvey’s idiosyncratic dance steps are always a treat. Now they’re tighter than Kate Moss’s undies on Jo Brand, with the urgency and power of a star about to go supernova. The sound was god-awful at the start for new song Come What May, guitars sucked into a morass, Phil Jordan sounding like he was beating seven shades of shit out of a biscuit tin. Not until the verse of Take The Long Road And Walk It did I even realise what the song was. But thank fuck the sound got better as The Music quarried out great slabs of thundering psychedelic anthems, The Truth Is No Words, Getaway and The People piled one on top of the other, ending in a sprawling Disco that saw that star exploding in all directions. Awesome. 

Far from appearing unconventional British Sea Power looked and sounded affected.  Studied pop at its most preposterous.  Without the humour.  Or style.  When Hamilton stopped hiding in his coat somewhere to sing ‘Blackout’ it was embarrassing.  All furrowed brow and staring into the middle distance he looked for all the world a schoolboy living the dream of being a ‘pop star’.  For God’s sake he ‘high-fived’ Yan when he’d finished!

But it wasn’t all bad.   Any band that extends a tour to celebrate the rare sighting of a white tailed sea eagle in the Sussex skies must have some sparkle.  Scrape away the old flesh of grunge guitar solos and thrash metal finales and your left with the kernel of something interesting.  ‘Remember Me’ is a pulsating tune infused with a nice turn in lyric.  ‘Fear of Drowning’ could be the Wedding Present.  And when Yan sings with feeling, looking like a young Kevin Bacon, he embodies the pathos of a plaintive seal pup.  All doleful eyes weighed down by the burden of sorrow.  But mostly it’s all too muddled.  A hotchpotch of anarchic crescendo’s (‘Lately’), melancholy whimsy (‘Something Wicked’), Banshee moaning and passionless guitar poses (‘Favours in the Beetroot Fields’).  It doesn’t show depth or complexity, merely immaturity and confusion.

The Brighton crowd gave the Brighton based BSP a glowing report, although a small minority wasn’t convinced.   Summing up an evening full of clichés rather than creative talent, BSP were as stuffed and lifeless as the owl on the Marshall.  Great name though.

Reviewed by Alex S
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Although coming out with a set of Velvet Underground influenced garage rock hardly singles the Duke Spirit out as a bunch of radicals, they shouldn't be knocked.  Their songs are good and they certainly look the part. Their sound builds heavily on a sinister bass backing, but they steer plenty clear from the dodgy waters of goth.  Good taste is also demonstrated by picking Into the White as a Pixies tune to cover and their quality by the fact that they don't fuck it up.  Good stuff.

If it's true that nice guys finish last then Rilo Kiley are fucked.  If tonight is anything to go by though they need have no worries.  Not because they were any less than pure Californian charm and enthusiasm, but because those at the Barfly had no heed to any dubious credo.  Although yet to bag a headlining slot in the Smoke, there could hardly be a bigger contrast with the smattering of fans and curious pensioners that got together for their first UK appearance earlier in the month.  This time, buoyed by a more congenial Friday evening slot and bit of XfM exposure, they've jammed the Barfly with a couple of hundred noisy converts.  As suspected the band reflect back and amplify the joy, putting on a real show that has the place bouncing.  All this despite a mix that threatens to drown out Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett's floating vocals with the chiming guitar pop that is their mainstay - albeit pop that ranges widely from surfy singalongs to punky power.  They even throw in a chunk of audience participation, dragging a few either pissed, starstruck, or both, fans up to contribute the bar room choir backing to the joyous With Arms Outstretched. All this happiness belies the bittersweet nature of some of the songs, but frankly that doesn't matter.  If there's any justice in the world Rilo Kiley should be aiming at first - they certainly won everyone over tonight.

Setlist: Execution of all Things, My Slumbering Heart, The Good that Won't Come Out, August, Paint's Peeling, A Better Son/Daughter, With Arms Outstretched, Pictures of Success, Spectacular Views.

Reviewed by Matt H
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The essential charm (or is that the magic) of The Cramps is their gloriously tongue in cheek – yet absolutely faithful – adherence to primal and stripped down rocknroll and psychobilly: and so the fact that the music hasn’t changed comes as completely obvious and it remains utterly compelling.  The rave from the grave, Garbageman (“You ain’t no punk, you punk”) kicks off proceedings nicely - pounding bass drum and a dustbin clatter of guitar scything through it all The only drawback is due to the Astoria’s muddy sound mix which contrives to smother some of the songs – but this does not dampen Lux’s squealing harmonica during their sweaty cover of Psychotic Reaction or the yelps and stutterings during his mic swallowing technique for a classic, extended, version of Surfin’ Bird.  Of course, there is also something very dirty (or is that smutty) about a Cramps performance. Lux is like a man OD-ing on viagra or a teenager in the first flush of masturbatory excess, as he continually sticks a gloved hand down his trousers and sniffs/licks it in slow motion; crawling around on hands and knees up to Ms Ivy sniffing her behind, lying underneath her whilst playing with himself (again); wearing her boot over his face whilst touching himself up once more; or clambering up the speaker stacks (stage staff rush around in panic as he builds steps out of smaller amps in order to climb the stack…); it can only end with Mr Interior pulling down his trousers and lying supine on top of the speakers overcome by his onanistic endeavours.  It’s completely silly. It’s completely serious. It’s cartoonish and fantastic.  And I’d forgotten how much fun rock’n’roll could be.  In fact I thought rock’n’roll was dead – but perhaps it belongs to the undead now.

 In a world of bandwagon jumping and fashion hopping it is comforting to have The Cramps around, and as Lux warns “If you can’t dig me/You can’t dig nuthin’”.

Reviewed by Kev O
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…build him up some goddamn more! Jesus Christ, some people just can’t take a hint. Mind you, if I were an egotistical bastard (ahem) I could claim a small measure of responsibility for the fact that the Arts Café is rammed to the gills tonight. It’s far more likely however that word of mouth about his last London shows has preceded dear ole Jeff and his merry entourage.

And if we thought we’d seen the best of him last time, boy, were we wrong. Whether it’s the wildly appreciative Sunday crowd or something in the chill autumnal air, the guy’s on fire tonight. Fantastically funny, yet simultaneously poignant, new songs like The Will Oldham Song mix effortlessly with predecessors like the inevitably requested Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song. Support act Diane Cluck joins him for mesmerising takes on their collaborations, The River and Travel Light, and there’s a new cartoon-illustrated song, a ‘documentary’ about Rough Trade’s 25^th birthday. After a gentle opening, any end-of-the-weekend lethargy is blown away by a joyous romp through If You Shoot The Head You Kill The Ghoul, which is topped only by a carousing version of The Man With The Golden Arm.

Tonight Jeff Lewis should revel in being a master of his craft yet he’s still struggling to push back the boundaries of his talents. The already faithful react like they’ve witnessed the second coming and the newcomers are converts long before the end. I may knock him down one day but this day certainly isn’t the one. 

Reviewed by James S
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“I met Ian Brown once”, mumbles the uniformly wasted drummer back stage. “He said ‘You go around making money from playing my fooking songs! Fair play to ya’,”. Damned straight. They’re Scotland’s premier tribute band. It may be note perfect, it may not be from the soul, and the bass player could have made at least half an ounce of effort to dress like Mani, but in the midst of the obligatory four and a half minutes of improvised masturbatory outro to ‘Waterfall’, we’re not the only punters to be spinning our arms in a windmill fashion whilst waggling our arses like idiots.

It’s not, of course, the real thing, and this is not like normal gigs. In amongst the inordinate amount of time between songs, the singer likes to thank us in an impenetrable wall of pure Celtic. His voice may be virtually indistinguishable from the real deal, and he seems to have worked hard at getting the unwashed look, but his name is Alan for Christ’s sake. Then again, who would want it to be any different? The band actually has an excuse to play a greatest hits set, and Amen to that. The punters actually have an excuse to get inexcusably wrecked and screech along with every word. In the tribute band game everybody wins.

Closing with ‘I Am The Resurrection’, my vocal cords are indeed now completely fucked and we’re all completely knackered. The energy (and perhaps some alcohol) still flows through the crowd, and the band, as requested, are most definitely being adored.

Reviewed by James B
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Reviewed by Matt H
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